“Whatever that infernal writing was,” said Dodson, “it was the cause of my not being able to get the two hundred pounds I asked for from the dealers. Do what I would, say what I would, it was only by sheer good fortune that I was able to get one. They happened to take a fancy to the clasp of that infernal volume; and as I had the presence of mind to tell them it was formerly the clasp of an ancient Roman libellus, they wrote out a cheque for one hundred pounds, less five per cent. for cash. And after that I had enormous difficulties to raise the other hundred. Talk about the labours of Hercules; what are they to the labours of one who attempts to raise a hundred pounds upon no security in this Christian country? I lied to my aunt; I put my name to an instrument that may land me in gaol; I lied to Octavius; I cheated an insurance company; and, as a consequence of all this, the great house of Crumpett and Hawker have undertaken to send out this three-volume poem for review on the twelfth of January. And let me tell you, old man, that in all the long and honourable history of that world-famous publishing house, James Dodson is the only man who has ever caused it to betray signs of what you might call undignified haste.” “No words of mine can requite you, sir,” said the white-haired man, whose eyes welled with gratitude. “But yet the proud consciousness is yours that unborn ages will be your debtors.” “Their monickers on a note of hand or on a three months’ bill don’t go for much at this hour of the day,” said James Dodson. “I too, like poor Luney, appear to have made the mistake of being born before my time. And it seems to me that of all the mistakes a man can commit, there is none quite so bad as that.” However, no sooner had Jimmy Dodson come again into the presence of him who kept the little room, than all these tribulations to which he had given so free an expression in the shop, yielded immediately to that solicitude, mingled with awe, with which he had come to regard him. “Ah, friend,” said the dying poet, “so here are the printed pages at last.” “Yes, old boy, here they are at last,” said Jimmy Dodson. “Give them to me,” said the poet, extending his left hand, which he could scarcely raise. Dodson placed a few of the printed sheets upon the extended palm, which shook like gossamer; and as the poet, with a look of composed passion, held them up before his sightless eyes, it seemed almost that those dead orbs were again endowed with life. “The paper is good,” said the poet, rubbing the pages against his cheek in order that he might know its quality. “I hope the printing is clear.” “Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “a brand new fount, beautifully clear.” “Liberal margins, such as are beloved of the gentle reader?” “Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “beautiful wide margins. It will make a fine page.”